


Out of the Cold

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Rescue, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: When his phone's location indicator overlaps the blinking white dot at last, there's not so much as an overhang – not so much as a tree to block the wind. There's just Prompto, flat on the ground, crumpled form curled in on itself.He found a jacket, somewhere – a hat, too, pulled down so that it covers his ears. They're undoubtedly the only reason he got this far. Noct prays they were enough.





	Out of the Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> Inspired by [this incredible comic](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/163767662418) by the very talented [Kaciart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com). Thank you for sharing this absolute wonder with the world! :)

It's Prompto that's falling.

That's Prompto's upturned face, mouth open to scream. Those are Prompto's lanky arms, pale against the backdrop of the ground, stretched up toward the sky. Noct knows the modified Crownsguard jacket; he helped pick out the patches for it. He knows the boots, scuffed on the outsides of the soles because of the way Prompto's feet land when he runs.

Noct stares after him as the train rushes on – watches him fall, and fall, and fall.

There's a sick sinking sensation in his gut, like he's just made the worst mistake of his entire life.

"How long were you in the dark?" says a voice behind him, soft and mocking. And Noct – Noct knows that voice. He hears that voice in his dreams every night, while its owner stands over Luna's corpse.

He moves on instinct – jerks sideways. He still doesn't quite miss the impact of hard metal against his skull.

And for a time, everything goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Ignis is going to kill him.

He's got at least a lecture and a half coming, and Gladio's going to be even more pissed off. That argument they had on the train is going to look like a playground spat between preschoolers after this, and honestly? Noct couldn't care less.

Ignis and Gladio are plenty capable of getting the passengers off that train in Tenebrae. Once they're settled and everyone's safe, they can track Noct down with the GPS on his phone.

He's twenty years old, trained in combat, and he can warp the hell out of any situation that might get him killed. He's not worried about his own life right now.

He's worried about Prompto's.

Because the little blip on his phone, telling him where his best friend is, has him wading straight into a snowstorm. And sure, Noct's got supplies; with the Armiger handy, he has a heavy winter coat, and material to make a fire, and enough rations for probably a month and a half.

But Prompto fell without anything.

Prompto doesn't even have his gun; Noct made sure of that. He knocked the damn thing straight out of his hand.

The snow's stupidly thick.

If Ignis was here, he'd be suggesting they set up camp and break for the evening. Ignis isn't here, though, and Prompto doesn't have that choice. So Noct shields his phone as best he's able from the worst of the weather, and he ducks his head, and he pushes on.

Every minute seems to last an hour. He can't feel his nose anymore, and breathing in feels like inhaling broken glass. He tucks the phone up into the sleeve of his jacket, hoping it's somewhat weather resistant. If he loses it now, he's not sure what he'll do.

If Prompto's phone runs out of battery, he's not sure what he'll do then, either.

But he's getting close.

He can see it on the map, that white dot blinking up at him like a promise.

It hasn't moved for maybe fifteen minutes now, and that? That's got Noct's stomach tied up in knots.

He hopes it means Prompto's managed to find shelter. He hopes it means his best friend is in one of those weapons outposts the Niffs seem to like sticking in the middle of nowhere. At least then, he'll be out of the worst of the wind and snow.

It means neither of those things.

When his phone's location indicator overlaps the blinking white dot at last, there's not so much as an overhang – not so much as a tree to block the wind. There's just Prompto, flat on the ground, crumpled form curled in on itself.

He found a jacket, somewhere – a hat, too, pulled down so that it covers his ears. They're undoubtedly the only reason he got this far. Noct prays they were enough.

"Prompto?" calls Noct, and his voice shakes. He scrambles toward his best friend, flipping him face-up with unsteady hands.

Frost clings to Prompto's eyebrows; his lips have started going blue. Noct's never seen him so pale, or so still, and there's a moment – one heart-wrenching, stomach-churning moment – when Noct's sure that he's fifteen minutes too late.

Then he sees Prompto's chest rise. The air fogs around his lips, and Noct blinks back tears, fiercely.

Thank all the gods Gladio made him take that survival course. Thank all the gods he knows what to do.

The first thing they need is shelter.

Noct crouches down – gets his arms under Prom's armpits and levers him up.  It's harder to lift Prompto onto his back, but he manages, cursing every extra second his fumbling hands add to the task.

He's given Prompto a piggy-back ride once before – that long-ago day he broke an ankle jogging the hiking trail in the park and showed up with a sheepish smile at Noct's apartment. "Sorry, dude," he'd said. "Your place was closer."

Noct can still feel the phantom memory of Prompto's arms, clinging to his shoulders.

He's not clinging now. His arms are out straight, deadweight and dangling, and Noct ducks his head and pushes himself to walk faster.

The shelter, when he finds it, isn't much.

It's not a proper cave; it goes back maybe twenty feet, tops, and the cave floor nearest the entryway is thick with snow. But he needs to get Prompto out of the weather, and he needs to get him warm again, so it'll have to do.

The Armiger's got his sleeping bag. It has matches to start a fire, and some kindling, and some wood.

That's going to have to be enough.

Noct sets Prompto down on the cave floor, and he gets to work, hands shaking with more than the cold. He curses under his breath every time the match doesn't catch. He bites his lip and prays when the fire finally flickers to reluctant life. He wants to nurse it until it's roaring; he doesn't have time. He throws on a log, and then another, and hopes it does its own thing.

He gets out the sleeping bag – drapes their coats over the top, hoping the extra layer will help to keep the heat in.

Then he turns back to Prompto.

He strips his best friend's boots off, and the soaking wet socks underneath. The shirt comes next, and the pants, and the underwear. He lifts Prompto as gently as he's able – slides him between the folds of the sleeping bag and tucks the fabric in around him.

After that, it's Noct's turn.

Even taking his boots off in weather like this is a special kind of hell, and he's shivering as soon as the shirt goes. By the time he's finally standing bare in the frigid chill of the cave, he's colder than he's ever been in his life.

There isn't any time to waste. He pulls back the edge of the sleeping bag and crawls inside, as close to Prompto as he can get.

Sweet Six, it's like spooning a block of ice.

Noct bites his lip, hard, and has to resist the urge to pull away. Prompto needs this. Prompto wouldn't be here right now, teetering on the edge of death, if Noct wasn't such a godsdamned idiot.

So he wraps his arms around his best friend, and he shakes until his bones are tired from it. He thinks he remembers from somewhere that shivering's your body trying to warm itself up. Does that mean his is doing double duty, for him and Prompto both?

Noct thinks of the last time they were this close – a late night drinking after Prompto's shift at the camera shop.

That night's a little blurry, still.

He's got it in bits and flashes, half gone with time and alcohol: Prompto, laughing too loud and clinging too close, hanging off him all the way home.  The two of them stumbling into Noct's apartment, kicking their shoes off in the doorway. Prompto sharing his bed, wearing borrowed sweatpants and nothing else.

He remembers waking at some point in the middle of the night, opening his eyes to an arm slung around his waist and freckles close enough to count. He remembers leaning down, just a little, to touch his lips to Prompto's forehead, hoping that he won't open his eyes.

Noct stares at those freckles, close enough to count again. This time, they're set in a face that's deathly pale. This time, he's hoping Prompto _will_ open his eyes.

He doesn't know how long they lie there, the heat from the fire fighting the chill of the wind. It's long enough for Prompto to start shivering on his own – violently at first – and then for it to gradually subside. It's long enough for Noct to call on every Astral, individually, by name, while he prays for his best friend to be all right.

Then – thank all the gods – he feels motion.

It's barely there, just the slightest shift, but Noct's spent what feels like years attuned to the rise and fall of Prompto's chest.

When he glances down, he sees that Prompto's eyes are open, wide and startled. It's the worst expression he thinks he's ever seen: stunned and vulnerable, eyes welling up with tears.

Prompto makes a small sound, somewhere in the back of his throat. He moves to pull away, but Noct catches at him – winds one arm around Prompto's shoulders and trails the fingers of the other hand through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hey," Noct says, quietly. "Stay with me."

His hand slips forward, gentle, to trace along the line of Prompto's jaw. Before he can think too hard about all the reasons it's a terrible idea – before he can remind himself of exactly how many times he's managed to talk himself down from a confession he'd be sure to regret – Noct presses a kiss, feather-soft, to the crown of Prompto's forehead.

"Gods, Prom," he says, and his voice sounds scratchy and strange. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were Ardyn. He must've – I don't know. Used some kind of illusion spell. You looked just like him."

He can feel it when Prompto's breath hitches; pressed so close together, there's no way to keep it hidden.

The silence feels more intimidating than the worst daemon he's ever faced in battle. It goes on for seconds that feel like years before at last Prompto's voice comes, shaky and uncertain. "What about in the train?"

For a minute, Noct doesn't know what he's talking about.

He pulls back, just slightly, to take in Prompto's face – finds nothing but uncertainty there. There's a kind of pleading in his best friend's eyes, a desperation that feels like a hook caught in Noct's chest.

All at once, a terrible suspicion creeps over him. It worms under his skin and buries itself there. His throat's suddenly dry; he has to lick at his lips before he can ask, "What do you mean?"

Prompto's eyes are damp around the edges now. They're trained firmly on the fabric of the sleeping bag, refusing to meet Noct's gaze. "Oh, you know," says Prompto, tone trying for casual but not quite managing. "Just, like. The part with the sword. And the choking. And the saying it was my fault?"

Noct stares at him for a minute, uncomprehending.

But that was – it was Ardyn, wasn't it? He had been so _sure_ it was Ardyn.

His mind scrambles back, frantic, trying to remember what he said. Every recollection feels like a cactuar needle buried in his heart; every memory of words spoken in anger rises up, bright and hot, to try and suffocate him.

Did he really tell his best friend that he was trying to kill him?

Was Prompto really wandering out here alone, believing it?

"No," says Noct. "Oh, gods. No, that wasn't – none of that was for you."

The hitch of the chest pressed against his comes again, harder this time. Noct's fingers rub carefully at Prompto's bare shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Noct says again, helpless. It's not enough; nothing he can say will be enough, but the words come pouring out all the same. "I'm so, so sorry."

For the first time, Prompto's arms tighten their hold. They loop around his back and cling, like he's a drowning man and Noct's a life raft.

"Hey," says Prompto. "No harm done, right? I mean, I'm still in one piece."

Prompto thought he was going to die out here.

He thought he was going to lie down in the snow and never get up again, and that it was because Noct had decided he wasn't worth having around anymore.

The horror that rears up in his throat is thick enough to choke him. "What the hell do you mean, no harm done?" says Noct. "You almost – you could've –"

He can't even say it. Prompto struggled through miles upon miles of barren, blizzard-swept landscape, and Noct can't even finish a godsdamned sentence.

"Hey," says Prompto. "I'm here, right?" The arm around Noct's back tightens its hold. "And you're here. That's plenty."

It's not plenty.

But Prompto's tucking his head in, against Noct's collar bone, and he takes a shuddering breath. Noct lets his fingers drift up, cautiously, to card through the fine hair at the back of Prompto's neck, and the body pressed up against his, still uncomfortably cool to the touch, gives a little shiver and edges in closer.

It's not plenty. It's not even close to okay.

But for right now, it's going to have to be enough.


End file.
